by Mary Daheim
I made a face. “I suppose I have to, unless the autopsy reveals otherwise. I suppose that'll have to be done over in Snohomish County. We still don't have the proper lab facilities here.”
“Crystal looked like a strong, healthy woman,” Den said in his usual reasonable tone. “How do you think someone might have slashed her wrists for her?”
“I don't.” I sighed. “But I do wonder why a woman keeps a straight-edged razor around the house.”
“Maybe someone left it there,” Den replied. “I heard that one of her ex-husbands had been around lately.”
My ears felt like they were jutting out from my head. “Where'd you hear that?”
Den frowned. “I'm not sure. One of the parishioners, I suppose.”
I searched my memory for the names Vida had mentioned. “Ramsey, that was one of them. I forget the other.”
“It wasn't Ramsey,” Den said. “It began with a C. I believe he's a musician.”
“What did you hear about him?” I asked.
“Just that he'd visited Crystal.” Den snapped his fingers. “Betsy O'Toole talked about him last Sunday after Mass at coffee and doughnuts. She'd seen him at the Grocery Basket with Crystal.”
“Interesting,” I remarked as Della Lucci came into the parlor with Vida looming behind her.
“Mrs. Runkel is here to …” Della began, but Vida sailed right past her.
“Well!” My House & Home editor planted herself between Father Den and me. “Why did I have to find out about Crystal Bird's death from Harvey Adcock at the hardware store? I thought I was on the staff of a newspaper, which would indicate that I should be kept informed of breaking stories.” Her gray eyes raked over me, then took in Den for good measure.
“I was going to come by your house as soon as I got through talking to Father Den,” I said, meek as milk. As often is the case, Vida was having trouble remembering who was the boss. So, apparently, was I.
“But I wasn't home,” Vida cried. “Nor, I might add, did my nephew Billy call from the sheriff's office to keep me informed.”
“I don't think Billy's on duty,” I said, referring to Deputy Bill Blatt, who was the usual pipeline between law enforcement and his aunt.
Holding on to her red, white, and blue knit cap, Vida plopped down next to me on the leather sofa. “You found the body, I hear,” she said to Den in an accusing tone.
Della lingered in the doorway. She hadn't heard of the tragedy and her eyes were huge. Father Den repeated what had happened for both women. This time I took notes.
“It sounds fishy to me,” Vida declared when Den had finished. “Though if I were as hateful as Crystal seemed, I might do myself in out of sheer self-loathing.”
Den smiled in his wry manner. “That was my reaction,” he said, “if expressed somewhat differently.”
“I must call on her sister, April, to offer condolences,” Vida said, getting to her feet. She looked down at me. “I should have called on Crystal when she came back to the area instead of letting Carla do a phone interview. It's a shame you never got to meet Crystal, Emma.”
I swallowed hard. “Actually, I did. Last night.” I felt like hiding behind the leather sofa cushions.
“What?” Vida exploded. “Oh, for heaven's sakes! Come along, it's well past noon. We'll eat something and you can tell me about this aberration of yours.” She stalked out of the parlor with a nod at Father Den and Della.
“I guess I'll be going,” I murmured. “Thanks, Den.” I made a point of patting Della's plump arm. “Thank you, too. How's college?”
“Finals are next week,” Della replied, looking nervous. “I hope I pass.”
I wished her luck and followed Vida out into the parking lot. She was already behind the wheel of her big white Buick.
“Venison Inn,” she informed me, and turned the ignition key.
Vida reached the restaurant first and was bombarded with questions from the other diners. Scooter Hutchins of Hutchins Interiors wanted to know if Crystal had killed herself with a hatchet. Ione Erdahl of kIds' cOrNEr thought it must be the work of a serial killer. Roseanna and Buddy Bayard of Picture Perfect Photography Studio were certain that Crystal's death was tied in to drugs.
When we finally managed to get some privacy in a booth toward the rear of the restaurant, Vida gave me a reproachful look. “I can't believe you didn't tell me you'd met Crystal,” she said, as if I'd neglected to mention that her hat was on fire. “Whatever were you thinking of?”
“I wasn't sure until the last minute that I'd go,” I said, lying only a little. “Really, Vida, I intended to tell you everything as soon as I ran you down this morning.”
Vida uttered a small snort. “Perhaps. Two can play this game, you know.”
The ominous tone disturbed me. “What do you mean?”
“Oh …” Vida's eyes roamed the grease-stained knotty-pine walls. “A major event. Someone you know extremely well. Huge news, really.”
“Vida…”
“All right.” She all but pounced on the table. “Carla had her baby at six-fifteen this morning. It's a boy, and they're both fine. His name is Omar.”
“Omar?” I gave myself a little shake. “Omar?”
“Omar Jethro Talliaferro,” Vida said with a solemn nod. “I've no idea what the significance of Omar is, but Jethro is Hebrew for outstanding or some such. I think it's rather nice.”
I thought it was really awful. But it was typical of Vida, who was usually so critical, to express the opposite opinion.
“Carla is Jewish,” I finally conceded, “which accounts for Jethro. But Omar is kind of a tough one to give a poor little kid.”
“Children grow into their names,” Vida said blithely. “Better yet, they often live up to them. I was on my way from Harvey's Hardware to see Carla and the little one at the hospital when I heard about Crystal Bird. That's when I started driving around town, trying to find you.”
“It's a good thing you didn't have to go very far,” I remarked.
“How true.” Vida turned as the latest in the Venison Inn's series of young, pretty, and not-too-bright waitresses approached us. This one's name tag read MANDY, and I recognized her as a Gustavson, which meant she was somehow related to Vida on the Runkel side.
After we gave Mandy our orders, Vida bore down on the questions about Crystal Bird. I told her everything I possibly could, including all the nuances of our conversation.
“You don't think I drove her to suicide, do you?” The terrible thought had just dawned on me, perhaps a late reaction to Father Den's insight.
“Certainly not,” Vida asserted. “Maybe it was that ex-husband of hers. Mooching, no doubt.”
“You knew he was around town?” I asked, though it was typical of Vida to not always share the information she gathered. There was so much that she filed away in her mighty brain; yet woe to anyone else who withheld the smallest of tidbits from her.
“Oh, yes,” she replied as Mandy brought coffee for me and hot tea for Vida. “Jake O'Toole told me about him the other day. Aaron Conley. He's some sort of musician who came up here from California in a ratty old van to borrow money. Jake was sure about that, because he tried to get one of the checkers to run a tab for him on Crystal's account. Naturally, the checker called Jake up front since they couldn't allow such a thing without the customer's approval.”
“I didn't know Jake and Betsy allowed people to run tabs at the Grocery Basket,” I said.
“They don't, as a rule. But when Crystal first arrived, she was waiting for money from the bank buyout, so she'd made some special arrangement,” Vida explained.
“What did Jake do?” I asked as a loud trio of teenagers passed by our booth.
“He called Crystal, who said it was all right,” Vida answered, blowing on her tea. “Later, she came back to the store with this Aaron person. Jake said he was much younger than Crystal, maybe in his thirties.”
Something clicked in my brain. “Thirties? A van from California? I think
he tried to run me down the other day on Front Street.”
“Really? I don't doubt it. Musicians are so irresponsible.” She quickly amended the statement. “Not all, of course. Roger wants a set of drums for Christmas. I've put in a special order through Music Express at the mall.”
Giving Roger drums was tantamount to giving AK-47s to terrorists. Vida's gruesome grandson would use them as weaponry. I pitied his parents, Amy and Ted Hibbert. Maybe they had done their best with the little wretch, but his grandmother not only spoiled him beyond belief, but was blind to his many egregious faults. He was now fifteen, perhaps the worst age for an adolescent boy. I cringed at the very thought of Roger with drums. Indeed, I cringed at the very thought of Roger.
“I didn't see any sign of Aaron Conley at Crystal's house last night,” I noted. Unless I could count the straight-edged razor. I mentioned the odd fact to Vida.
“People keep very strange things on hand,” Vida said, in apparent dismissal of my theory. “Darla Puckett has never gotten rid of her late father's union suits. He never wore any other kind of underwear, even in summer. And then he'd complain about the heat. You wouldn't remember him, of course. He died at least ten years before your time. Do you want to join me in calling on April and Mel Eriks?” Vida inquired without skipping a beat.
I barely knew the couple. “Maybe you should go alone,” I demurred.
Our food arrived, a shrimp salad for Vida, and pancakes, ham, and eggs for me. I'd skipped breakfast this morning; my stomach had still felt queasy.
“Nonsense,” Vida said in response to my remark. “You've seen April and Mel a million times around town. They'll appreciate your sympathy.”
I wondered if they'd appreciate either of us barging in on what I assumed was their grief. But Vida never passes up a chance at offering condolences. The opportunity is too great for ferreting out all sorts of information the mourners would probably just as soon keep to themselves.
We took both of our cars to the Eriks home, which was located just west of town in what is known as Ptarmigan Tract. The development, which was built in the Sixties, is made up of modest two- and three-bedroom homes that have generally been well kept.
Mel and April's split level was in a cul-de-sac which already was crowded with cars, SUVs, and pickup trucks. Vida and I both parked around the corner and made our way along the unshoveled sidewalk.
The door was answered by Mel, a burly, crew-cut man of fifty. I had indeed seen him many times, usually driving a Blue Sky Dairy truck. He greeted us with surprise, even confusion.
“Is this going to be in the paper?” he asked, ushering us down three steps into the living room, where his wife was on the phone.
“We'll have to run an obituary,” Vida said at her most solemn. “It would be wonderful to have a photo.”
April Eriks had hung up the phone. She jumped to her feet and hurried to greet Vida, who wrapped her in a warm embrace. “April, dear,” Vida murmured. “I'm so very sorry. I was so close to your late parents. Lester and Erla were like an uncle and aunt to me.”
I'd never heard Vida mention Lester and Erla Bird, but I suppose it could have been true. The soft soap that Vida applied seemed to make people come clean. April clung to her like moss, and I exchanged awkward glances with Mel, who was picking his teeth with a pipe cleaner.
At last, Vida released April, who began to dab at her eyes with a crumpled Kleenex. “I'm so glad you came by. You, too, Ms. Lord,” she added as an afterthought. “We only found out about poor Crystal an hour ago, when Sheriff Dodge came to see us. I've just been on the phone, trying to reach our kids and some of the other relatives. Whatever shall we do, Mrs. Runkel?”
“Do?” Vida's eyes grew owlish behind the big glasses. “Precisely what do you mean, April?”
April, who was a small, slim, prematurely gray woman with big brown eyes, indicated that we must sit. “About the services. Crystal wasn't a believer. Or so she pretended. I was just talking to Pastor Poole at the Baptist church where we go—well, we go most of the time—and he said we should give Crystal the benefit of the doubt because that's what God would do. What do you think, Mrs. Runkel?”
“I think that's very sound advice,” Vida said, easing herself into an orange-and brown-striped armchair. “We never really know what people believe or don't believe, do we?”
“Crystal had so many opinions,” April said, wringing her thin hands. “Still, sometimes I felt she took the opposite view just to upset me. Isn't that right, Mel?”
Mel, who was still stabbing at his gums with the pipe cleaner, grunted. Then he glanced at Vida and me. “You writing all this down?”
“Goodness no,” Vida said in a tone that suggested such a notion was impossible. “We're here only to offer a small piece of comfort.”
Mel grunted again, then turned his back and stared out the window. April watched him for a moment then clapped her hands to her head. “I'm such a goose! I should have offered you something. Coffee? Tea? Hot cider?”
“No, no,” Vida asserted. “We just ate lunch. Tell me, April dear, when was the last time you saw your sister?”
April pressed her fingers against her lips, apparently trying to remember. “Mel, when did we see Crystal? Was it just after Halloween?”
Mel didn't turn around. “Could be.”
“I think it was the first week of November,” April said. “She stopped by to see if we had any chains that would fit her car. That was when we had our first big snowfall.”
“Yes,” Vida agreed. “November fourth. Six inches. How did Crystal seem?”
Again, April had to think about the question. “She was in a hurry. She was afraid she might not be able to get back to her cabin unless she had the chains.”
“Cal,” Mel grunted.
“I know, Mel,” April said. “But she didn't want to spend the money buying chains from Cal Vickers if we had a spare set. As it turned out, we didn't, so she had to go to the Texaco station anyway.”
“Tightwad bitch,” Mel muttered, still staring out the window and picking his teeth.
“Now, Mel,” April admonished, “don't be so hard on Crystal. Especially now that she's dead.”
Mel grunted again.
“Her spirits?” Vida coaxed, the smile tightening on her face.
“Oh—yes.” April nodded. “She was worried, of course. About the snow.”
“But she didn't seem otherwise upset?” Vida asked.
April shook her head. “No, not that I could tell. Of course April was always up in arms about something. She was mad at Mr. Cardenas. You know, the college president.”
“Was that about the day-care center?” I inquired, trying to emerge from Vida's shadow.
“I think so,” April said slowly. “Although she mentioned something else. Women's studies? Does that make sense?”
“Not to me,” Vida retorted. “But I understand what she meant.”
“Had you spoken with her since then?” I asked.
“Oh, yes.” April nodded several times. “Thanksgiving was the last time. We wanted her to come for dinner.”
“You wanted her to come, you mean,” Mel put in.
“Of course I did,” April responded on a defensive note. “She was my sister. Holidays are for family.”
“But she turned you down?” I asked.
“She had company of her own coming,” April said, giving her husband's back a defiant look.
“That Russian, I bet,” Mel said. “Good thing she didn't try to bring him here. If you ask me, that's why she killed herself.” He finally turned around. “Don't quote me.”
Mel bent the pipe cleaner a half-dozen times and threw it at the open fireplace.
He missed.
I SENSED THAT Vida was imploding with curiosity after Mel's remark about the Russian. I was more than a little interested myself, remembering Janet Driggers's conversation with a stranded traveler named Victor.
It wasn't a coincidence. Victor Dimitroff was a naturalized American
, born in Paris, according to April Bird Eriks. He was a former symphony player and a composer who had taken up with Crystal in Portland. According to April, he had visited Crystal at least twice since she'd moved back to Skykomish County.
“Really,” Vida huffed as we walked back to our cars, “April insisted she didn't know if they were romantically involved. Obviously, Mel thought otherwise.”
“If you can decipher the grunts,” I noted. “Darn, we've missed a good feature by not knowing about Victor.”
“How could we?” Vida retorted, taking umbrage at the merest suggestion that she'd missed a juicy news item. “He'd go straight to her place in Baring without ever coming all the way into Alpine.”
“Not necessarily,” I said, reaching the Jag. “He booked his trips through Sky Travel.”
“What?” Vida almost slipped in the snow. “How do you know?”
I told her about the call Janet Driggers had received Friday from Victor, who apparently had been stranded in Chicago. “Follow me home,” I suggested. “We have quite a bit to discuss.”
Among other things, I hadn't confided in Vida about my ouster from the bridge club. Nor had we really talked about the break-in. The item had been culled from the sheriff's log by Scott Chamoud on Friday morning, but we had been busy, with little opportunity for chitchat. And now that Crystal was dead, I could confess my visit to Marisa Foxx.
It was after three when we finally got caught up. Vida wasn't much interested in the legal consultation, but she was wrought up over the snub by my fellow cardplayers.
“Mary Lou Hinshaw Blatt,” she said, referring to her sister-in-law with whom she was not on speaking terms. “A veritable worm. You can figure her for one of them. The Dithers sisters. So abnormal, speaking only to their horses. And Edna Mae Dalrymple. Repressed, of course, hiding from the world behind all those books at the library. The others, I expect, would be somewhat more broad-minded.”
I didn't quibble with Vida's assessment. “I can't help it, even with Crystal dead, I can't stop hating her for what she's done to me. She was a vile human being.”
“Arrogant, yes,” Vida conceded. “Opinionated and mean-minded. While I'm the first to not excuse people for troubles they bring on themselves, I must admit that Crystal's life wasn't smooth. One wonders where she went wrong.”